My rented flat has been sold. I’m packing up; where I’m off to remains a mystery.
It has always been thus in this scribbler’s Lifedream. The veils hiding the way ahead only vaporize once all present business has been tidied up and folded away and the old doors are closed.
This used to infuriate me – why wasn’t my life laid out in the apparently ordered and predictable manner demonstrated by … other, ‘together’ people?
Blind Men on a Log bridge
The Gitter Collection
I feel like one of Hakuin’s blind men. But this time round, I’m strangely relaxed, loose even. How could one possibly outguess the unknowable movement of Creation-aka-Life-aka-Totality?
If a dip in the river is called for, so be it.
Of course there are problems; isn’t that the nature of dreams?
If you wake up from a sleeping-dream which was problem-filled you say, “Oh it was only a dream, whew!”
When you wake up within the big Dream the response is the same: “Whew!”
As they say in the big Down Under: “No worries, mate!”
The first time I sat with Krishnamurti he asked us whether it was possible to live without problems. Just to entertain the possibility. What exactly is a “problem?” he asked.
Twenty years and much deliberation later, spaciousness scribbles: A problem is a thought believed to be real by another thought – the ‘me’ thought. It’s only by inquiring into the nature of thought that one gets a grip on problems. Or, rather, they lose their grip on the tail-chasing thinker.
Problems are as ephemeral as the ‘me’ thought. When the dreamer wakes up to the Dream, problems are seen as Life’s creative unfolding. There is nothing outside of this utterly mind-boggling miracle of Creation.
Grasping the impossibility of a separate autonomous self with which one can ‘I’dentify opens the door to savage wisdom.
Awakening to the now-ness, this-ness and here-ness of consciousness playing the phenomenal self, to its marvelous imPERSONation within Life’s dream, is awakening to freedom.
At last one can speak authentically of self-love, for all versions of self are none other than IT knowing ITself.
How cool is that, Beloved?
Sometimes one gets frustrated trying to find clean and accurate phrases to wordify this immaculate suchness – ‘n’ – the ‘what-is.’
Language – this English one at any rate – is quite useless for this purpose. Whatever is uttered immediately needs qualification, adjustment, explanation.
Perhaps poetry is the medium, but its technologies aren’t known to me.
(Are they knowable at all?)
The problem is the subject-object split.
If I say, “I am sad”, for example, I lie.
I cannot find an owner of sadness (or any-thing else).
Sadness simply is ‘what-is.’
Perhaps one could say, “I is sadness.”
But that would be grammatically clumsy. And also irrelevant, because the ‘I’ seeks no reason for it; ‘I’ has no aversion towards it; has no need to express it.
The sensation of sadness is an energetic body-brain response to apparent conditions, often appropriate and inevitable in the grand scheme of dream-scenarios – as is all suffering, at the bottom line.
And, like the dreams, changing, always changing.
How then to write about That which never changes?
Poetry is the medium.
Like creativity, knowing nothing about how to ‘do it’ is probably the only way for it to happen.
There were about a dozen ‘eyes-shut’ dreams last night. Every old-time friend and colleague, every loved place on the planet, seemed to turn up in amazing and absurd stories to press all the buttons that evoke all the emotions that would like to convince one that a Real Person is ‘having a dream!’
I ask myself: Is there any difference at all between these ‘eyes-shut’ dreams and the daytime ‘wide-open-eyes’ dream?
The only difference seems to be that after dreaming while asleep I awaken and say, “Whew. It was only a dream.”
And when dreaming while not sleeping I say, “Oooops. This is real.”
Until wideawakeness kicks in: “Wow! No dream, real or unreal, no dreamer, asleep or awake – only an endless unfolding and dissolving of appearances happening here…”
Life’s spinning Its suchness stories
around Its still and silent dimensionless point.
we are endlessly fascinated with dreams
nocturnal dreams, daytime dreams:
we turn them inside out looking for meaning, guidance, purpose
we record them, manipulate them,
discuss them, compare them
yet the everyday Life-dream
fails to be seen as a phenomenon of the same order
“it’s real life!” we cry
but how can there be any ‘reality’
in a dream? or a dreamer?
it only takes one question,
held in earnest,
asked of your very own experience,
and you’re tumbling down that rabbit hole to Wonderland:
what’s aware of the dream-time?